Life's a Stitch

You know you have it bad when you don’t leave home without a knitting project in your purse.

You know you have it bad when, while dining in a nice restaurant, you think "Oh my gosh I’ve spent three hours straight without thinking about my knitting!"

You know you have it bad when you dream at night about knitting.

You know you have it bad when you find evidence of your habit in every room of the house, for example, stitch markers lost behind the toilet or when you say strange things to your partner, "Honey, if you find a knitting needle in the bed, it belongs to me."

Or when you look at floor plans of apartments or houses and you think which bedroom will my stash get?

I know I have it bad when I find myself posting to my knitting blog at 2:38a.m.

A lot of you have it really bad – look at the sales of lighted knitting needles.

How do you know you have it bad?

This is my latest purse knitting project. Why resist the world of gorgeous hand painted sock yarn? I have a love/hate relationship with sock knitting. I think I love it until I have to wear them. I haven’t found the solution to my problems with fit and socks stretching out of shape, but in the amount of time and yarn it takes to make a pair of socks I can knit a lace scarf using Socks that Rock. This is the Lead or Follow pattern by Jackie E-S at HeartStrings FiberArts. I’ve adjusted the pattern for width. Although I liked the colour pooling far better with the wider version, it was going to be too short. I knew I was better off frogging it, a fifth of the way through, than end up with a project that I would be unhappy with.

I have described myself as a packrat. There are things I have difficulty parting with. If I didn’t have it before, I am sure I caught this affliction from my mother-in-law. When she lived on a farm she told us, when she died, to burn down the shed because she was embarrassed about its contents. It contained at least a half century’s worth of egg cartons.

For me it’s boxes. You never know when they’ll come in handy for mailing, storing stuff, or burying the neighbours dead hamster. I can’t blame this on on my MIL as I’ve had this addiction since high school. I worked in gift wrap at Lord and Taylor in New York and it was box heaven. I also held onto boxes that contained fancy stationary or candy. It drives my husband around the bend. Come on, really, in the overall scheme of things what’s the problem with keeping boxes?

I guess I come by it honestly. My father could not throw away a coffee can. He’d paint them and have rows in his workshop, each a different colour, filled with assorted screws and nails. I have fond memories of that rainbow of cans.

Come on, fess up, we all have something. I know Blogless Marsha was saving those heavy cardboard inner rings from Touch Me yarn for awhile. Never know when those might come in handy.

It’s proud mama time – for those Canadian readers, Mount Pleasant, a movie by Ross Weber, is being released this Friday in Vancouver, Toronto and Montreal. It’s a small independent film about an actual neighbourhood in Vancouver experiencing not so pleasant issues. Here’s the trailer and a description. The number of ticket sales in the first weekend influences the length of the movie’s run. Now, here the proud mama part – my 16 year old has two lines in this movie and that’s all it takes to say you’ve had a speaking part in a movie and to get your name in the credits.  OK, so one of the lines is only one word, who’s counting? He’s the one with the camera in the party scene. In Vancouver it will be at the Granville Seven. I’ll be there Friday night. And Saturday. And Sunday. Stop by my seat and say hi. I’ll be the one who doesn’t get up when it’s done, knitting my way to the next showing. The things we do for our kids. This is a picture of him, almost a year and four inches of hair ago.

I am not Ms.Fashionality opting for function over form, nine times out of ten. My favorite shopping spots are LL Bean, Lands End and the clearance racks at Talbot’s. In my best attempt to keep my kids out of therapy, I read all the books and learned never to criticize their weight, hair or clothing. Apparently they never read their version of the same books.

One day, descending the escalator at the Bay, I eyed the most perfect hot pink silk outfit, just right for my daughter’s prom. In our part of Canada, the prom is a family affair, attended by graduates, dates and parents. I brought it home to have it nixed by every member of the house.

I heard four versions of "You are NOT wearing that are you?"

"This is not the problem of a single woman," I grumbled as I exchanged it for the royal blue version.

Recently my husband declared, in a not so diplomatic way, his disdain of one of my tried and true articles of clothing. He told me I needed to throw it out. I told him I was saving it for my next husband. Over Christmas, both my daughters were home. I asked each on for their honest opinion of said item. It’s not bad, Mom, said elder daughter, but I didn’t like that top you wore last night. It’s OK said the younger one, but where did you get those pants you wore last night? What am I supposed to do? The younger piped up that her friend’s parents are not allowed to go clothes shopping by themselves. When I get back to work I’m calling my employee assistance program. I need therapy.

I am not alone!  I just read Super Eggplant’s post about her new dress, described by her husband as looking like something a polygamist’s wife might wear.

Realizing I never posted photos of my cousin’s scarf, here it is, already mailed off, delivered and worn:

I am pulled to handpainted yarn with an attraction as strong as a rare earth magnet. In a yarn shop it gloms onto me, the only thing able to separate us being pair of knitting needles. I like patterns that highlight the colourplay of variegated or self striping yarn, hence my affinity for the Herringbone Rib scarf. When I put that pattern together, it was with Manos del Uruguay yarn in mind. the colour distribution worked well with 34 stitches.

Enter Fiesta Chinchilla, the silk chenille mentioned in a previous post. Once again, a painted yarn leeched itself onto me only this one felt soft as velvet and the colours had a depth and sparkle like none other. The deciding factor, as if a decision was possible, was another full Marilyn’s punchcard reducing the price by 30%.

At home I calculated gauge and cast on. Following my own pattern I was disappointed with the lack colour patterning AKA pooling and flashing. To some extent, I like those effects, the interplay of colours across the rows. I wish I had taken a photo as it wasn’t happening; I was getting an even distribution of colours the yellows speckled regularly throughout the scarf.

Round two – I experimented with the number and width of columns. A cast on of 32 stitches was similar to the Pooling Colors scarf that was published a few years back; stripes of like colours down the length of the scarf.

Round three, a cast on of 30 stitches, produced a different effect – zigs and zags of colours criss crossing width and lengthwise. It’s amazing how two additional or fewer stitches makes such a difference. Here they are, round two on top – front and back, round three on the bottom:

I’m not sure which I like better or if I’ll even continue, the combination of chenille and the diagonal rib stitch might be too dense. Any pattern suggestions that would provide flexibility using chenille?

As for the Chinchilla – I probably wouldn’t buy it again. It knits just like cotton chenille and despite what you’re told by knitting shop staff, it worms. I’m hoping it will soften up with a damp blocking, as it is impossible to increase the needle size past ten (the label recommended a six) as the worms would multiply producing a scarf reminiscent of a cup of colourful fishing bait.

As a working mom of three kids I learned, almost too easily, that my priorities were not in my house keeping. However, we have a condominium in Washington that we rent out by the week, and we take responsibility for cleaning it between rentals. When my children were old enough to help out I explained that people who pay good money to stay there don’t expect to find body hairs behind the bathroom doors. That was my standard of cleanliness. It’s not a fancy place, but it’s clean.

Over the holidays, anticipating the arrival of guests, I asked my middle daughter, a third year university student who recently moved into a house with three girls, to take responsibility for the bathroom. She agreed and shared her standard of cleanliness with me. She educated her roommates that the toilet isn’t clean until you are willing to put your head into it, just in case you need to throw up. Pipes up the boy "Why bother, I’d just throw up in the sink." Who raised these kids?

I took the week after New Year’s off to make an attempt to chuck the stuff overflowing from my house. I used to have policy that anytime I brought something new into my home, I’d have to rid myself of something of equal bulk. All week I’ve made myself spend three hours per day sorting, organizing and tossing. I rid my closet of a third of it’s content and still there is no room for additions.

What did I find in that closetly abyss? This is embarrassing:

1. I uncovered five boxes of large ziplock bags, the kind I use for yarn and WIP’s. Every time I bought a multi pack form Costco, I spirited away a supply for my knitting projects.

2. There were six shoe boxes full of beanie babies; cute and worthless. What possessed me?

3. I found an item that probably doesn’t exist anymore. One of those erasers that look like a pencil with a brush on the end. I’m sure they’ve gone the way of wheel shaped erasers used for correcting entire rows of typing, the kind I recently saw featured at a museum.

4.When piled together, there was a small mountain of coins. I used to have a boss who would pay my children 10% to sort and roll her husband’s small change collecting in the top drawer of his dresser. I couldn’t believe how someone could lose track of money. I am the person who picks up every good luck penny I see on the street and now I need to engage the services of next door’s eight year old.

5. And yes, I found that underwear, the body shaper I wore to my daughter’s wedding, featured in my post on Task Oriented Clutter.

I learned that there are clothes I cannot part with. The chances of their being worn again are slim because I no longer am. I’ve decided to accept a bit of body fat in exchange for periods and meds that make my heart beat in a regular manner. The reason these articles are kept have nothing to do with wearing, but I can’t toss out the memories associated with them. This is a concept not graspable by my spouse.

One of these years I will either retire or die, and when I do, I don’t want my house to be this out of control. Sounds like a New Year’s resolution to me. Better late than never. I rewarded myself with a solid chunk of knitting time. So, with Randy Bachman’s Vinyl Tap on CBC Radio in the background, I worked on a new addition to my closet – an entrelac scarf made up of Noro form my stash.

The security guard at the park in Bellingham had quite the story to tell when he got home from work the other night. It was after dark, his shift about to end. Taking the guard dog out for one last pee for the night, he spotted a vehicle in the parking lot. The windows were steamy. They heard the faint pop of a beverage can from inside the car. They approached with caution, the man’s right hand covering his weapon, the beast’s fangs glowing in the parking lot lights. Closer to the car, actually a mini-van, the dog and the man could detect rhythmic motion within. Heh heh heh, I’m gonna nail those kids, he thought with darkened flashlight drawn, the thumb of his left hand rubbing the textured switch. Imagine, borrowing the ‘rents minivan to "park," like nobody on his watch has tried that before.

Two feet from the Dodge Caravan, German Shepard straining at the leash, the guard pops his light on to reveal the inside of the vehicle. In a split second his brain registers the scene. A bearded greying middle age man in the driver’s seat, wrists bound in multicoloured silk cord, a can of diet coke on the dashboard, the woman, slightly younger in years, rhythmically winding the yarn into a ball. "Hello," she says, "it’s hand painted silk chenille. Want to feel it?"

Disappointed, he walks away, dragging the eager beast still pulling toward the car, wanting ear scratches. It was only a harmless couple, killing time waiting for their restaurant reservation.

Truth is stranger than fiction. It’s up to you to tell the difference. The evidence:

Yes, that’s the three column version of my herringbone rib pattern (pattern available for the mere price of a comment). You’re probably tired of hearing about it, but I received an e-mail from blogless Marci with some feedback – "I finished the scarf on Monday, and have already given it as a gift.  The recipient loved it.  She’s not a knitter, but she noticed the ‘cool twisty things in the bumpy parts.’ " Anyone who notices those things is added to my list of possible convertees. Heh, heh, heh, more evil laughter.

It was a wonderful week with the prefect re-entry back into the noisy real world. When my kids returned from camp or a class trip I always asked them for the highlights – what was the best part and what was the worst. Often on the bus home they’d be preparing the answer to my predictable questions. Recently they’ve turned the questions on me, so I’ve joined the club and pondered the highlights:

The best part? New Year’s Eve in Seattle with Chuck, Blogless Marsha and her husband Dave, at their son’s apartment directly across from the Space Needle. The fireworks were spectacular:

A happy accident – I discovered fat free half and half, a heavenly oxymoron I had never seen in Canada. That’s not the accidental part. Planning on heart smart cream of broccoli soup for dinner, I placed a quart in Jeff’s fridge. Dave, preparing heart-not-so-smart but rationalizeable due to small portions, Creme Brulee, mistakenly grabbed the half and half instead of heavy cream. We discovered the substitution when all but 1/2 cup had been poured into the mixture. Without enough eggs or sugar to start over, we proceeded with the recipe to a successful outcome – reduced fat Creme Brulee!

The worst part? Driving home in the perpetual daytime darkness in sideways rain.

Knitting highlights – a category of its own:

The best part – finding Manos del Uruguay in colour 113 in a dyelot much lighter and prettier than a previous 113 purchase and having a full Marilyn’s punchcard to put toward it. Can you see the difference between the two dyelots? It’s hard to believe they’re the same colourway.

The worst part? Bellingham’s Hank and Bolt has discontinued their yarn department. The yarn selection in tiny B’Ham was just too good to be true. Not that it’s bad in any way, just one fewer interesting stop on the yarn crawl.

I’m "out of touch" for New Year holiday, somewhere without phones or computers. Somewhere where it is so quiet, all I heard last night was a pack of howling coyotes. Just me and my knitting.

To those who are waiting, thank you for your patience, I will send you a copy of my pattern when I return at the end of the the week.

My Fleece Artist Celtic Vest, awaiting a partial frogging:

Hapy New Year.

My husband’s family follows Danish tradition for special occasions. This means they drink that fire water also known as Akavit. That caraway flavoured stuff that burns all the way down and continues to smolder in your stomach, requiring the taste and soothing temperature of cold smoky fish to trick you into thinking you want some more. After a few you no longer care about anything, least of all an Akavit hangover, something his family insists doesn’t exist.

My father -in-law was a staunch Christian who would tell you he kept no alcohol in the house. I was amazed that first Thanksgiving dinner when an entire bottle of Akavit was consumed. I guess that doesn’t count. Oh, did I mention the tradition of chasing it with beer? It was Tuborg and I guess in Denmark that doesn’t count either. So, although he "didn’t drink" he put on quite the party.

Traditional Danish akavit has been produced by the Aalborg company for over 150 years. And like many North American companies, it was recently sold. And to a Swede! If there is such a thing as rolling in your grave, my father-in-law is doing it. In its corporate wisdom, this Swedish company has made the decision to discontinue exporting the stuff to North America, saying it’s too small a market.

Feeding frenzy! The Danish-Canadian club in BC put out a call to all its members who bought up the remaining 718 bottles of Akavit in British Columbia. Unfortunately, by law, they can’t sell the bottles, only serve it. The rest of us, not quite Danish enough to join the club, have been left in the dust. It’s a good thing we had three bottles left from my daughter’s wedding to cover our Danish Christmas frokust for 22 last night.

This has an acceptable ending. The BC liquor board, realizing the crisis, has contracted with a (cover your ears, Dad) Norwegian company to supply Akavit in the future. If you have a link to the afterlife, don’t tell my father-in-law – I like the Norwegian stuff better. He’d blame it on my Poli-Rican taste buds. Skoal!

My Christmas gift from my three offspring plus two:

In my career and in parenting I’ve learned about picking my battles. You have to save your fighting inclinations for the things that are worth warring over. Now, I have a 16 year old and plenty of battles from which to choose. So, when he announced his intentions of sleeping on the sidewalk in front of Toys R Us, so he could be at the front of the line to buy a Nintendo, we had to seriously tap into our arsenal of reason. Never mind the fact that it was 30 degrees Fahrenheit outside and that we raised this boy without the benefit of electronic equipment such as TV, except for occasional videos, and still only have the first, most basic of Nintendos. As a little guy, other parents felt sorry and recorded Power Rangers for him, lest he miss out. Forget the constant battles over school work and the moral dilemma of conspicuous consumption, was this one really important enough to invest huge amounts of energy?

I packed him up in multiple layers, a thermos of peppermint tea, a foil space blanket and educated him as to the symptoms of hypothermia. I warned him it was so cold outside that the shelters were rounding up the homeless into a variety of warming stations. I tried to instill reason in him by equating the monetary outlay in terms of hours worked at his just above minimum wage job.

I secretly hoped that upon closing at 11:00 pm, Toys R Us management would see these kids, realize the liability issues and assign them a number, sending them home to return at dawn. Nuh uh, for them this was a priceless p.r. opportunity. Passersby where of two ilks. The "way to go" types and the proselytizers – there are kids starving and you waste your time and money hanging in front of a capitalistic pig toy store.

When I awoke at 6:30 a.m. I looked out the window to see an inch of snow on the ground. I tuned into the AM radio news station hoping not to hear of spoiled middle class kids sent to the hospital, victims of exposure. The telephone rang.

A jubilant Bryant proclaimed victory. He was #2 in a line of 50 waiting for Nintendo Wii’s and Tickle Me Elmo’s. Accompanying him in line were dads and kids (no moms, go figure) and at the front was a homeless guy, paid to wait it out, since he was in his element anyway. I’m too tired to figure out the moral implications of that one.

So my boy, for the first time in his life, is ahead of the pack in electronics anyhow.He’s created a memory to last a lifetime, he’s no worse for the wear and even mom survived unscathed.

That’s my story on this, the eve of Christmas, my third in blogland. Wishing you a Merry Christmas, full of the real meaning and blessings, and hope for a better year to come.